


How to orchestrate an 18 car pileup

by OscarthegrouchILOVETRASH



Series: Nightstalker [5]
Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, American Politics, Attempted Sexual Assault, Everyone in the nightstalker newsroom is gay, F/F, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Journalism, M/M, Nonconsensual phone sex, Past Sexual Assault, Possessive!GW, QPQVerse, Restraining Orders, Schadenfreude, Sexual Harassment, Strippers & Strip Clubs, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Thomas Jefferson is a gross motherfucker, qpq universe, rape mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-25 03:21:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6178249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OscarthegrouchILOVETRASH/pseuds/OscarthegrouchILOVETRASH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deborah Sampson and the rest of the Nightstalker team investigate claims of donor fraud committed by Thomas Jefferson and James Madison. </p><p>Part of the Quid Pro Quo universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Follow the money

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rillrill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Quid Pro Quo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5880157) by [rillrill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill). 



> Few things:
> 
> This takes place immediately after chapter 33 of Quid Pro Quo (GO READ QPQ WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR).
> 
> There's going to be lots of Thomas Jefferson being an absolute creepshow, and mentions of rape (but nothing graphic). Those things are related, obviously.

_All hands meeting at 7AM tomorrow in the newsroom. Bring a change of clothes and a toothbrush. Don't be late. -D_

Deborah fired off the text as she walked out of the diner, the binder held tightly under her arm.

_showtime_

 

*

 

She read the binder in the bathtub that night, sipping on rooibos tea.

Molly peeked through the door.

“Sweetie, are you okay?”

“What makes you think I'm not okay?”

“You've been in the tub for two hours, reading something that isn't a tabloid or _Cinema Sewer_.”

Leave it to Molly to know that relaxing and reading something serious was a sign that shit was about to hit the fan.

“Just doing some light reading about Jefferson and Madison engaging in dark money donor swindling and tax fraud.”

“Shit”.

“Pretty much”.

“Anything I can help with?”

Deborah could say she was planning on burning down the Capitol, or beheading John Adams and Molly would ask _“do you need me to get lighter fluid for you? I know someone who has a really nice guillotine, wanna see if I can borrow it?”_ And she would do it. Molly was a helper to the core.

“Know anything about who owns the Long John Silver’s franchises in Charlottesville?”

“Let me check”.

 

*

 

The _Nightstalker_ building was across the street from a large 24-hour gym. Every employee received a membership. There was a practical benefit: this meant no one had to go home and shower during an investigative reporting marathon.

Everyone, the newsroom staff, the editors, legal, design, IT crowded into the newsroom, filled thermoses with coffee, and took the breakfast sandwiches laid out on the table. Deborah strode to the front of the room to a large white board.

“Good morning. We are gathered here today to break a story that will lead to the resignation of at least two members of Congress. I received a present this weekend: detailed financial records that show years worth of corruption and fraud by Rep. Madison and Senator Jefferson.”

Deborah started writing a chart on the whiteboard.

“What we have is evidence that James Madison is laundering money through Family Future Action-a PAC run by his wife, which then makes donations to Thomas Jefferson’s slush fund, and then that money is donated to New Life Church Monticello. _This_ is New Life Church.” Deborah held up a photo of a Long John Silver’s restaurant.

“Now, Jefferson makes 20 thousand dollar donations every month to New Life Church,  for the ah...past four years. Would anyone care to guess what happened four years ago to warrant those payments?”

The crowd murmured.

Sybil Ludington replied. “Sally Hemings”.

“So”, Deborah continued, “what we need to do is prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt that Madison and Jefferson are in cahoots to launder dark money and engage in large-scale donation fraud in order to pay off a woman Jefferson raped and impregnated. Sooner rather than later. I want this published well ahead of midterms.”

“Everything needs to be researched, fact-checked, and vetted by Legal. I don't want a Rolling Stone shitshow on my hands.”

“Now get to work”.

 

*

 

By afternoon, the team started getting answers. Nate Webster had gone down to the archives and pulled everything related to the Sally Hemings case, and Molly stopped by with a stack of papers.

“What’s this?”

“Capital Region Hospitality Group paperwork. Look at the investor list.”

“Thomas Jefferson and James Madison. What exactly are they investing?”

Molly pulled another sheet of paper. “Here's a property listing sheet. No names, just addresses. It shouldn't be too long to look up the--”

Kitty grabbed the list. “That one's a strip club, that’s another strip club, gay bar, gay bar, and, I'm pretty sure that's the address of The Diplomat.”

“The bath house?”

“Uh-huh”.

“That's not all”, Molly pulls out another sheaf of documents. “Here's the franchise information for the regional Long John Silver’s chains. They're all owned by Thaddeus Cheney”.

“Of the revolutionary war arms dealer Cheneys”

“The very same. Thad’s a big RNC donor.”

Deborah quickly googled _thad cheney thomas jefferson rnc fundraiser_ , and was rewarded by pages of photos of Thad shaking hands and smiling with Jefferson at a variety of functions.

“Alright, Kitty, figure out what JefferMads are doing at the strip clubs, gay bars, and bath houses”.

“JefferMads? Seriously?”

“They're so up each other's ass they might as well be the same person. _Anyway_. Sybil, Lydia take a field trip to Charlottesville. Leave the Vespa at home.”

“No problem. I'll take the Indian.”

“Whatever, just go. I'll meet you”.

Deborah, Lydia, and Kitty strode out of the newsroom, leaving the buzzing of phones, keyboards, and chatter behind them.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. No Sex in the Champagne Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas Jefferson is the Zodiac Killer/a horrible strip club patron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I spent time messaging people about the bad strip club behavior of the Founding Fathers for "research".

“Don't worry, we all have the night off”.

Kitty, was tucked away at a booth in the Florida Avenue Diner, along with Mary-Lou and Varenne, two off-duty strippers. “What's the story this time?”

“Trying to destroy Thomas Jefferson and James Madison. They're investors in your club. Do they ever come around?”

As if on cue, Mary-Lou and Varenne rolled their eyes.

“Wow, that great huh?”

“They come around once a week or so” said Varenne between taking bites of scrapple.

“Same here. They always do champagne rooms”, Mary-Lou replied, sipping coffee.

“And they have a deal with security, so they get let in from the back entrance, like that one Goodfellas scene.”

“Same.”

Kitty made a mental note to assign photographers to the back entrances of all local strip clubs.

“Are they good customers?”

Kitty's companions erupted in peals of laughter.

“They are so creepy. Jefferson gets really handsy--

\--”And he'll whisper in your ear about how he wants to get you pregnant.”

_“No.”_

Varenne imitated Jefferson’s creepy drawl and leaned across the table.

“Kitty yew are so pretty. So-oo puh-rit-eey. I wanna take ya home and put a baby in yew”.

_“Eeurgh”_

“Madison is worse honestly. He just _stares._ No talking,  just staring. In your eyes. For every dance. All night.”

“Well, do they at least make it worth your while?”

\--”I mean there's not enough money in the world, really--”

\--”They're not the cheapest, but they're not Drake”.

\--“Management treats them like God's gift to the club”.

Now it was time to cut to the chase.

“Do you know if they're skimming money from the clubs?” Kitty's contacts at the gay bars and the bath house had all talked about dual receipts, bags of cash hidden in ceiling tiles, and bank bags handed to Jefferson and Madison.

“Maybe. Whenever they come, the manager always takes them into the office.”

“And I'm gonna assume that both your cash offices are under video surveillance?”

Both women nodded.

“Okay, this is what I need: I need proof that Jefferson and Madison are complicit in skimming money. Preferably photos or videos. Lean on your security people. Any info you provide me is deep background. Understood?”

“Got it.”

 

*

 

Deb had mastered the art of blending in and standing out at the same time. To the untrained eye, the woman sipping a latte and pounding away on a laptop in the UVA student center was a professor, TA, or maybe an older student. To the trained eye, Deborah’s tailored jacket, slacks, and “THOMAS JEFFERSON IS THE ZODIAC KILLER” t-shirt have her away as The Crown Empress of Sleaze.

Deb learned a lot from the student newspaper. There was a list of students inducted to the accounting honors society, the front-page story was about the controversy surrounding the Health Center’s decision to offer the Depo-Provera shot, and fill prescriptions for Truvada, and the Op-ed section was devoted to the movement to remove President Clinton’s statue from campus. Jefferson, the most powerful trustee, opposed it.

Back in the hotel room, Deborah emptied the envelope she received in an inconspicuous handoff, and sorted through the deposit slips and account paperwork.

Deborah attempts to fill in the missing pieces of financial bullshit were interrupted by the sound of a motorcycle, and by Sybil and Lydia bursting through the door.

Lydia tossed an envelope onto the bed.

“Merry Christmas.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the famous "long walk" from Goodfellas. Now just imagine Jefferson and Madison doing this at a strip club:  
> https://youtu.be/OJEEVtqXdK8
> 
> Fun strip club facts: There's a strip club on K street. During the 2012 RNC Convention, Tampa strip clubs offered discreet VIP services/entrances so convention attendees could visit clubs without being spotted. 
> 
> Here's a great guide on strip club etiquette:http://www.ohjoysextoy.com/stripclub/
> 
> In short, don't behave like Jefferson or Madison, be nice, and tip generously.


	3. Platters of Fried Beige

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sybil Ludington and Lydia Darragh roll up to a fast food joint on a bitchin' motorcycle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Anyway here's lesbians on a motorcycle.

Sybil’s office was the Vespa. Most of her time was spent zipping around DC, weaving in and out of traffic, meeting sources, exchanging envelopes of cash for flashdrives, only returning to the office to drop off those flashdrives and pick up more envelopes of cash and stacks of legal agreements.

Lather, rinse, repeat. 

Lydia was good at subterfuge, tailing politicians, infiltrating private meetings, getting footage from security. They made a good team. They were the exception to Deb’s “don't shit where you eat” workplace dating policy, because “I can't replace either of you and you have the good sense to not be up each other's asses in the office”.

Lydia wrapped her arms tightly around Sybil’s waist as the sped along on her Indian Black Bullet. There were worse things than riding a motorcycle on a pleasant day with your girlfriend. Even if the destination was a fucking Long John Silver’s. 

They pulled up to the restaurant. The parking lot was nowhere near full. Then again, since when has a shitty seafood restaurant ever been busy?

“What now?”

“Let's get something to eat”.

 

*

 

The restaurant wasn't busy. They ordered platters of fried beige and ate at a leisurely pace. The staff was nice (because they had to be nice) and talkative. 

“Okay, does anyone actually order the fish tacos?” 

The cashier, your standard Teenage Girl Who Is Through With Your Shit rolled her eyes. “Senator Jefferson  _ always _ orders the fish tacos”.

“Does he come here often?”

“Oh, about once a month, at least. He's buddies with the franchise owner. He's super creepy.”

_ Go figure.  _

Lydia’s phone buzzed. “I'm gonna go out for a smoke”, she stated as she sauntered down to the mailbox at the end of the driveway. 

“Are they, like, college buddies or something?”

“Nah, Thad’s a big donor. He spends more time hanging out with Jefferson than he does at the restaurant, honestly.”

“Speak of the fucking devil,” Another cashier chimed in as a black Lincoln Navigator pulled up to the mailbox, and then rolled into the parking lot. 

Sybil remembered her last meeting with Jefferson, his oily grin in a coffeeshop, how he drawled “sweetheart, I don't want your boss to buy the footage and bury it, I'm not that stupid”. She quickly put on her sunglasses as Jefferson walked through the door. 

“Good afternoon, ladies”. Jefferson’s oily drawl was cranked to an eleven today. 

“The usual, Mr. Jefferson?”

“Of course sweetie, but only after you give me a smile.”

Sybil’s stomach lurched as she watched the cashier not so much smile as reluctantly bare her teeth. “That's better. You look so pretty when you smile.”

Sybil groaned, and quickly hid her disgust with a cough. Jefferson took a break from harassing the cashier to direct his attention to Sybil.  _ Shit _ .

Jefferson looked her up and down. “Is that your motorcycle out there?”

“Sure is.” Sybil pitched her voice a little higher than usual, doing her best “talking to important men” impression. 

Jefferson continued to ask ignorant motorcycle questions (the kind that most men asked, honestly). Sybil played into it. She watched Lydia walk back and approach the driver's side of the Lincoln Navigator. 

Mercifully, Jefferson’s fish tacos with a side of French fries were ready. Lydia strode in, trying not to grin like an idiot, but she was obviously pleased about something. 

“We should probably head out sweetie.”

“Yeah.”

She couldn't shake the feeling that Jefferson was going to jerk off about them later. 

As they pulled away from the restaurant, Sybil saw a bright yellow Hummer pull up to the restaurant mailbox.

 

*

 

“You stole a check”.

“So I stole the smoking gun.”

Deborah sighed. 

“That's not all. I spoke to Jefferson’s driver. His next stop was Sally Hemings apartment.”

Deborah cursed quietly. 

“You two should head back to DC. Take back roads, Jefferson and Cheney probably know what's up, and I don't want you two to become the story. I'll be back some time tomorrow.”

Deborah blocked her number and called the burner phone she had given to Sally. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fyi, the Charlottesville Long John Silver's is permanently closed. 
> 
> And yes, you can get fish tacos but they look hella gross.


	4. Mr. Deepwater Horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally’s voice was steady, but a tear streamed down her face. Deborah wished there was a god, who was a woman, who would smite Jefferson with a nasty case of prostate cancer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GRAPHIC TW-RAPE, SEXUAL HARASSMENT 
> 
> I decided to crank Jefferson's creepiness to a 12, so please heed the warnings/tags.

You can learn a lot about someone by rummaging around their bathroom: age, income, gender, relationship status, medical conditions. Discreetly checking out the host’s medicine cabinet was usually the first thing Deborah did at parties. 

Meeting Sally Hemings wasn't a party. Her apartment was near the UVA campus, clean, neatly furnished, devoid of personal touches. 

Deborah found a medicine bottle tucked in the far corner of the cabinet and put it in her pocket. 

Deborah returned to the living room. Sally was seated on the sofa. 

“Where's Maddox?”

“He's taking a nap”. Sally was calm, composed and neatly dressed. Deborah couldn't tell how much of that came naturally, and how much of that was a defense mechanism. 

_ Well, time to rip off the bandaid. _ Deborah laid out a sheaf of documents on her coffee table. 

“We're investigating Jefferson and Madison’s engagement in donor fraud. We know that they're skimming money from family-values-unfriendly businesses, laundering that money through Dolley Madison’s PAC, donating that money to Jefferson’s slush fund, and then Jefferson sends that money to you via the nonexistent New Life Church.”

“Now, I'm going to go on a hunch and say that the UVA financial aid department doesn't know that you're receiving 20 grand a month from Jefferson.”

“This looks very, very, very bad for you. You are complicit in large scale tax fraud.  _ When _ this comes out, and this  _ will _ come out, Jefferson and Madison are going to lawyer up, and they will lay everything on you. 

“The Feds, the IRS, and the House Oversight Committee won't give a single sparkly fuck about you. They will not care about the absolute living nightmare Jefferson put you through, they will not care about making Maddox visit you in prison, or hell, giving Jefferson full custody.”

Tears welled up in Sally’s eyes. 

“How  _ dare _ you. You don't know what it's like. I have to do this for Maddox, I--”

“You're right. I don't know. I  _ do _ know that Jefferson makes regular visits as a condition of his financial support.” Deborah pulled the prescription bottle out of her pocket. Truvada. “And he doesn't bag it up”.

“I can make three calls and have the most bloodthirsty defense lawyer on retainer for you. I can publish an interview and spin it so the public assembles with pitchforks and torches outside Jefferson’s office. But you have some missing pieces from this shitshow puzzle, and I need your help to put them together.”

Sally sat in contemplation. 

“Frankly, your coverage is more on the exploitative side. I don't want to be exploited.”

“Look, I exploit powerful people who think they're above the laws they create. I don't make it a habit to pull some Jane Pratt bullshit--”

Deborah was interrupted by Sally’s personal phone (not the burner, not the “church” phone). 

“It's Jefferson, I have to take this”.

“Put it on speaker.” Deborah pulled out her digital recorder. Sally answered, put the phone on speaker, and Jefferson’s oily voice filled the room. 

“ _ Hello, darling.” _

Jefferson’s voice oozed out of the phone, like if the Deepwater Horizon rig became sentient. 

“Hello Mr. Jefferson”. Sally’s voice was calm and pleasant, like a customer service agent. 

_ “I had a lovely time last night. It's so nice seeing you.” _

“Glad to hear it.”

_ “I'm having a bit of a financial issue. Seems like your check was ah, lost in the mail. I've cancelled it, Thad knows, it'll just be a couple of days.” _

“Understandable, shouldn't be a problem.”

_ “You're so well-behaved. I like that. I like a woman who knows her place.” _

“Yes Mr. Jefferson.”

Deborah did not hear Jefferson groan. She did not hear Jefferson groan She did not hear the clink of a belt buckle and rustle of a zipper. That was not happening. 

_ “You get me all worked up, you know that?” _

Deborah clenched everything. 

_ “God, I can't stop thinking about how you screamed last night. I love the way you scream. You look so cute when you say no”. _

“Thank you Mr. Jefferson.”

Sally sounded completely bland and uninterested. Her lack of interest didn't seem to deter Jefferson, no, fuck  _ Jefferson was getting off on it.  _

_ “Can you be a good little bitch in heat and tell me no? Hmm?” _

“No Senator, please --”

_ “God I wanna rape your mouth” _

Deborah was shaking with white-hot rage. 

“No Senator, please, I can't do this”

Sally’s voice was steady, but a tear streamed down her face. Deborah wished there was a god, who was a woman, who would smite Jefferson with a nasty case of prostate cancer. 

Deborah’s misandric prayer was interrupted by a loud groan from Jefferson. There was a shuffling of clothes in the background. 

_ “Ah, one last thing sweetheart. Seems like the press have been sniffing around lately. Have you seen a pair of dyke bitches on a motorcycle  hanging around your apartment complex lately?” _

“No sir.”

_ “Good girl” _

Jefferson mercifully hung up. Sally began crying in earnest. 

“Sally, you and Maddox need to leave. It's not safe.”

“But where will we--”

“--I'll handle that”.

Sally grabbed a locked paperwork case, her purse, and went to wake up Maddox. 

“C’mon, sweetie, Mommy’s gonna take you on a trip! If you're good, I'll get you some ice cream!”

Deborah’s heart broke into a million pieces. 

They sped away in Deborah’s ‘58 Plymouth Fury. Deborah barked orders into her Bluetooth, while Maddox slept in Sally’s lap. 

Deborah pulled up to a safe house run by a domestic violence shelter. Mary Wollstencraft, a human rights lawyer, and Sarah Grimke, a victim advocate, were waiting for them. 

Mary held out an ice cream cone to Maddox. 

“I heard you were looking forward to some ice cream.”

Maddox smiled. 

So maybe today wasn't a complete abject failure and there were good people in the world. 

 

*

 

Deborah arrived at the office earlier than usual (even for her). Her homicidal rage at Jefferson kept her awake. 

The rest of the newsroom staff filed in, with the exception of Sybil. 

She rushed in, 20 minutes late.

“Sorry, would've gotten here sooner but a car was tailing me and I couldn't shake him off.”

Deborah strode past her and peered out the window. 

A black Lincoln Navigator was idling across the street from the office. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the 58 Plymouth Fury is the car from Christine. I figure if anyone can handle a sentient murdervehicle, it'd be Deb.
> 
> The lawyer is based off of Gloria Allred. Gloria Allred handing a 4-year old an ice cream cone is a Good mental image.


	5. Don't Call It A Comeback (Mama said knock you out)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were keeping things quiet, no press releases, no major announcement. Deb Sampson knew, but had told Washington that she had “bigger fish to fuck at the moment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone except Jefferson is a badass. 
> 
> Note: the process for obtaining restraining orders isn't nearly as easy in real life. Sadly.

This was pretty low-key for Mary Wollstencraft. Serving restraining orders to high profile officials was usually a high-profile affair: She'd accompany a small army of officials to the recipient’s workplace, tip off the press, have the police serve the notice in front of a blinding array of flashbulbs, and give a press conference afterwards. Public shaming was Mary’s favorite tactic.

But her client didn't want that, and she served at the pleasure of her client. Which is why she was at Thomas Jefferson’s doorstep at 5AM on a Monday, with only three police officers and Sarah Grimke.

“You sure he's here?” Sarah fiddled with her phone. Her job would be to film the whole affair.

“His driver tipped us off.”

“If you say so”.

An officer pounded on the door and rang the bell. “DC Police. Open the door!”

After a few moments, Jefferson came to the door, shirtless, wearing a pair of purple silk pajama pants.

“Senator Jefferson, by order of the Superior Court of the District of Columbia, we are serving you with a temporary restraining order. You are to have no contact with Ms. Sally Hemings and Maddox Hemings, and you are not to come within 500 feet of the complainants for the next fourteen days…”

The officer went on. Jefferson looked, not angry or disgusted, exactly, more like confused-like a child who wasn't allowed to play with his favorite toys. It wasn't a good look.

He didn't put up too much of a fuss, at least. Mary called Sally with the good (if you could even say that any of this was good) news.

 

*

It was Alex’s first Monday back at the office. _Technically,_ he'd been the new Policy Director since Saturday, when he and Washington had moved him into the new office, AKA put his nameplate over the door, and then Washington had bent him over his new desk to christen it, but whatever. They were keeping things quiet, no press releases, no major announcement. Deb Sampson knew, but had told Washington that she had “bigger fish to fuck at the moment.”

Washington had a morning meeting, so Alex busied himself with looking over new legislation, and continuing his year-long Twitter fight with Comcast.

He didn't register his office door opening and closing.

“Well, well, well. The princess got a promotion.”

_Jefferson_

He looked tired, his typical smirk was plastered on his face, but he didn't look nearly as intimidating as when he had backup.

“Policy Director, huh. I wonder what you must've done for _Daddy_ to give you such a nice office. It must be a miracle that you can even sit down.”

Jefferson has nothing. Something must've raised his hackles, and now he's lashing out at what he thinks is an easy target. Let him try.

“Nothing you're not already intimately familiar with, _Senator Jefferson._ Now unless you have a legitimate reason to be barging into my office without an appointment, I'll have to--”

“What? Call _Daddy_ and have him rescue you?”

“No. I'll call Security. And that'll make a real pretty picture for the press--you being hauled out on your ass by a bunch of security guards. Run along now, I'm sure Madison has some errands for you.”

Jefferson sneered, but left the office, letting the door slam on the way out.

 

*

 

From: [P. A]

do you know who pissed in Jefferson’s cornflakes?

he just paid me a visit

I'm fine tho. Scared him off.

Washington stared at the message on his screen. Rage pooled in the pit of his stomach. Jefferson, who had just been served with a restraining order, who was intimidating the press, had the _nerve_ to harass his boy. He quickly excused himself and made his way to Dirksen.

An intern at Jefferson’s office informed him that he was in a meeting with Madison, but should be back shortly.

“That's fine. I'll wait. No need to let him know I'm here.”

This was good. Gave him more time for the anger to build.

Jefferson oozed back into the office. He was all smiles until he saw Washington.

“Senator Jefferson. A word. In your office. _Now_.”

“My pleasure, Senator Washington.” Washington followed Jefferson into the office, and wasted no time taking up space, practically pinning Jefferson against the office door.

“Boy you really fucked yourself into it this time, _Thomas_ .” Jefferson shrunk under his glare. Good. “What the _hell_ were you doing in my staff’s office this morning?”

“Paying a friendly visit.” Jefferson said with a (very forced) smirk on his face. It was about damn time someone wiped that stupid grin off his face.

“Nuh-uh” Washington’s drawl was back in full force. “Intimidating my policy director is a real funny way to respond to a restraining order, _Senator_.”

This felt wonderful.

“If you don't stop harassing my policy director, if you so much as look at him funny, I will have your ass in a river of shit. Don't even think about it. And while you're at it, stay the hell away from Deb Sampson’s staff. Intimidating the press isn't a good look. Maybe try to stay out of trouble for once in your pathetic life.”

Washington clapped his hand down on Jefferson’s shoulder and squeezed. Hard. Jefferson shuddered. The smirk was gone. Jefferson looked every bit the coward that he was.

“Don't give me a reason to visit your office again. Or I will end you.”

Washington strode out of Jefferson’s office. The mountain lion inside him was roaring in victory.

 

*

 

Deb stared at the mess of documents and photos tacked onto the newsroom whiteboard, all connected by arrows and illegible writing.

She had 14 days to turn this into a story.

_Fucking bring it._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.A. obviously stands for "Princess Alex".


	6. Matryoskas of bullshit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything in Washington’s binder had been neat, tidy, organized, coherent. Everything Deb’s team dug up was messy. This was a pyramid scheme made out of trash and sewage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the gang puts everything together.
> 
> Mind the tags, there's a brief mention about attempted assault.

“How the  _ fuck  _ are we gonna turn this shit into a coherent story.”

Deborah was half addressing her staff, half talking to herself as everyone huddled around the sprawling shitshow spread across two large whiteboards. Everything in Washington’s binder had been neat, tidy, organized,  _ coherent _ . Everything Deb’s team dug up was  _ messy.  _ This was a pyramid scheme made out of trash and sewage. 

“Look, I don't know  _ jack shit  _ about dark money, or finance laws. Our readers aren't financial experts either. We need to lay everything out in a clear and straightforward manner, without talking down to the reader.”

“This is going to be a long story. We don't do longform. This won't read well on a phone.” Sybil looked frustrated. She didn't like being cooped up in the newsroom-but Deborah had placed a temporary ban on any field work on her Vespa after the scare with Jefferson. 

“So, we do a short overview of this clusterfuck, and then short pieces that address any one aspect of this mess. Matroyshkas of bullshit.”

“Huh?”

“Russian nesting dolls.”

“Oh”.

 

*

 

There was already some chatter about Jefferson, but it was minor. Any chucklefuck could look up Sally Heming’s restraining order, but the press weren't paying too much attention. For once, the press ignoring claims of abuse against a powerful man would play in the victim’s favor. 

Kitty's phone was lighting up.

“Got a hot date?”

“No. Jefferson’s going on a fucking  _ bender _ . The two girls I talked with earlier? Well, Jefferson went strip club hopping last night and straight up tried to finger one of them.”

_ It has been precisely zero days since Jefferson’s behavior has made Deb boil with homicidal rage.  _

“Is she okay?”

“She's  _ pissed _ . Normally that'd get you thrown out by security and banned by the club, but management treated Jefferson with kid gloves. She and Varenne straight up quit, and they want to go public.”

“Fine, go ahead and interview them.”

“That's not all.”

“Fuck, is he peddling Ginsu knives too?”

“I've been hearing some chatter that he might be visiting an escort. A gay escort. Sounds like he's into some daddy shit --sorry, I know how you feel about that word.”

_ Jesus fucking christ this goddamn fucking fucknugget.  _

“Well, would this escort be willing to talk?”

“Dunno.He's pretty tight lipped.”

“Well, keep that in your back pocket for now. Maybe he'll talk once the shit hits the fan. Speaking of  _ talking--”  _ Deborah addressed the rest of the newsroom-- “I want absolute silence until we break this. Jefferson is already behaving erratically, and I don't want us to blow our load prematurely. Understood?”

Deborah looked at the calendar. 12 days to deadline. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH HEY CHECK OUT THIS SERIES ABOUT THOMAS JEFFERSON'S ANGRY BONERS http://archiveofourown.org/series/428653


	7. Click, click, boom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Madison’s office refused to answer any questions when Nightstalker requested comment. A representative for Jefferson’s office refused to respond to Nightstalker’s questions, and said that Jefferson’s office had no interest in knowing what Nightstalker’s questions would be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which shit hits the fan, to the tune of the 1812 Overture Finale.

**Eleven**

Kitty gets surveillance footage from the strip clubs. Not only is there footage of Jefferson and Madison taking skimmed cash, but Kitty also found footage from the champagne room, clearly showing Jefferson grabbing at a dancer’s crotch.

Deborah adds it to the drive of a month’s worth of photos of the politicians sneaking in and out of strip clubs.

**Ten**

Deborah takes the Metro to the safe house, wearing her hoodie and Red Sox cap.

Inside, she sets her recorder on the table. Deborah sat on one side of the table, Sybil and Mary on the other.

“If you need me to stop, or take a break, let me know. Mary, you can stop this any time. If you need something off the record, you'll need to say so.”

“Okay”.

“Let's get started.”

**Nine**

The design team creates a graphic, showing the money trail. It's good. Could be better. “Make it less boring”.

**Eight**

The first five story drafts are done.

“Too obtuse. Too up our own asses. We have to write about smart things stupidly. Not too stupidly.”

**Seven**

The drafts are rewritten. “Much better.” The new graphic is bright, and grabs interest.

One week left.

**Six**

All of the cash deposit slips, bank statements, and the paperwork from Washington’s binder are scanned, and arranged in a slideshow. Jefferson’s voided check remains locked up in the archives. No need to flaunt a stolen check.

**Five**

The legal team looks over the drafts. Deb takes out a word, adds punctuation, adds a word, until everything could hold up to any legal retaliation.

**Four**

Deb meets with IT to ensure that they can handle a spike in traffic, installs extra phones at the tipline, and meets with building security.

**Three**

Deborah browses through _Wonkette_ , _Gawker_ , _Politico_ , _The Daily Beast_ , _Quorum_ _Call_ , even fucking _Politifinder_. There's rumors about Jefferson’s recent erratic behavior, everyone's been suspicious ever since someone spotted a hard drive flying off the roof of the Four Seasons Georgetown the same night Jefferson and Madison had a private dinner. But nobody knows anything concrete. Good.

**Two**

Deborah waits until the last possible minute to get comment from Jefferson and Madison. She gets an intern to call their comm. directors. “Make it seem like we're  doing the one-off story about Dolley Madison’s PAC.”

The interns make the calls, working off the scripted questions Sybil wrote.

“Alright, thank you very much.”

The intern looked baffled.

“Madison’s office has no comment, refused to answer any questions. Jefferson’s comm director cut me off, didn't even want to know the questions.”

“Well, it's their funeral.”

Deborah added a comment to the end of the leading story:

“ _Madison’s office refused to answer any questions when Nightstalker requested comment. A representative for Jefferson’s office refused to respond to Nightstalker’s questions, and said that Jefferson’s office had no interest in knowing what Nightstalker’s questions would be.”_

Something something about being hoisted on your own petard.

**One**

Everything was queued up to go live at 9AM EST. At quarter to nine, Deborah played Tchaikovsky’s _1812 Overture_ and passed out glasses of champagne, sparkling cider, and lavender kombucha. “Sybil, Lydia, your champagne will have to wait. I need you two to get over to Dirksen.”

The finale played. Horns and strings swelled. And then the cannons fired.

**SEX, LIES, AND DIRTY MONEY: JEFFERSON AND MADISON CAUGHT IN WICKED WEB OF FINANCIAL FRAUD & SEXUAL ASSAULT **

_boom._

**STRIP CLUBS, GAY BARS, AND BATH HOUSES--OH MY! VIRGINIA REPUBLICANS AND THEIR SHADY BUSINESS DEALINGS**

_boom._

**RNC DONOR THAD CHENEY COMPLICIT IN RUNNING PHONY CHURCH FOR JEFFERSON’S DIRTY MONEY**

_boom._

**“EVERYTHING I DID WAS FOR MY SON”: JEFFERSON’S EX-HOUSEKEEPER BREAKS SILENCE ABOUT HER LIVING NIGHTMARE**

_boom._

**JEFFERSON, MADISON CAUGHT ON TAPE ASSAULTING DANCER AT K STREET STRIP CLUB**

_boom._

The office phones started ringing, mixing with the church bells on the recording. A joyful, chaotic noise.

 

*

 

The line at security was longer than usual, and of course this had to happen when Alex was already running late. He was ready to start ranting on Twitter when he noticed a tweet from Deb Sampson:

Deborah Sampson @DebSampson

BREAKING: @SenTJeffs and @JamesMadison caught in web of corruption, tax fraud, and sexual assault: nghtstlkr.me…

_Holy. Shit_

All around him, phones were buzzing, and everyone in the line murmured.

“Jefferson, really?”

“Can't say I'm surprised.”

“Oh my God.”

Alex stepped out of the line, ran out the building, and bolted to Dirksen.

 

*

 

“Funny seeing you here.”

Deb Sampson looked different from their last meeting at the diner. The Red Sox Cap, hoodie, and jeans were replaced with an impeccably tailored suit and dress shirt.

“Uh, nice suit.”

“Hercules does excellent work. But you knew that already.” Deborah gave him a knowing look.

“Well?--”

“Well, right now we know Jefferson is screaming at every poor bastard in his office, Madison punched a wall in the Whip’s office, and both of them should be sending their resignations in the next five minutes.”

“Sooner. Madison just resigned.”

Alex noticed two young women, a brunette and a redhead standing next to Deborah, staring at their phones. “Aaaaaaaaand Jefferson’s out. Should be doing a walk of shame shortly.”

Alex wanted to know _how_ Deb’s team knew the inner workings of Jefferson’s and Madison’s breakdowns, but knew better than to ask. He probably wouldn't like the answer.

A black Lincoln Navigator pulled up, and the driver stepped out. He nodded curtly to the redhead.

“Any minute now”.

Sure enough, Jefferson finally stepped through the front door, accompanied by an aide. He looked like _shit._ Gone was the smirk, the oily confidence. He kept his head down as the aide guided him to the car.

“Senator Jefferson”, the driver stepped forward pulling an envelope from his jacket. “Here's my resignation. Drive your own damn self home.”

Alex filed away Jefferson’s expression of frustration and disgust. It was an image he didn't want to forget anytime soon. 

 

*

 

**JAMES MADISON RESIGNS MAJORITY WHIP SEAT**

**THOMAS JEFFERSON RESIGNS SENATE SEAT**

**MADISON, JEFFERSON STAFFERS RESIGN POSITIONS LIKE RATS FLEEING A SINKING SHIP**

**THOMAS JEFFERSON RESIGNS FROM UVA TRUSTEES AFTER PRESSURE FROM STUDENT BODY**

**IRS RAIDS BUSINESSES LINKED WITH VA POLITICIANS’ SHADY DEALINGS**

**DC JUDGE GRANTS PERMANENT RESTRAINING AGAINST JEFFERSON FOR SALLY HEMINGS**

**EXCLUSIVE FOOTAGE: THOMAS JEFFERSON’S WALK OF SHAME OUT OF DIRKSEN**

And the hits keep on coming.

The rest of the day in the office was controlled chaos as Jefferson and Madison’s house of cards continued to collapse. Deborah ignored all requests for comment, except for Shep’s producer, who arranged a remote interview.

“And joining us from D.C.is Deborah Sampson, founder and Editor-in-chief of Nightstalker.com. Busy day, Deb?”

“Shep, I think that's the understatement of the year.”

When Deb finally made it home, Molly pinned her against a wall as soon as she walked through the door.

 

*

 

_15 missed calls from [Exxon-Valdez]_

_3 voicemails from [Exxon-Valdez]_

 

To: [Exxon-Valdez]

http://nightstalker.com/breaking-jefferson-voicemail-threat 

Thanks sweetie.

P.S. Wearing machine guns for shoes must be awfully uncomfortable.

-D

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ripped off Bernard Law's response to the Boston Globe sex abuse investigation because I am A Hack. 
> 
> "Smart things stupidly, and stupid things smartly" is the ethos of VICE.
> 
> America's sweetheart Alec Baldwin spoke to the New Yorker, on the record, about how he fantasized about stabbing Harvey Levin with a "rusty implement". What a charming guy.
> 
> If you're not familiar with Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture, take a listen: https://youtu.be/fvc2to0bQLc
> 
> CANNONS.


	8. Epilogue (who lives, who dies, who airs your dirty laundry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deborah held the flashdrive as she soaked in the tub. She could drop it in the water and poof -- the photo, the surveillance footage of Hamilton and Lafayette’s heist, the recording would disappear. No one would be the wiser.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Deborah Sampson has a case of the feels.

Deborah couldn't believe what she was reading. She reread the letter, double-checked the address on the envelope, and triple checked Media Twitter. 

_ Nightstalker  _ was nominated for a Pulitzer. Two Pulitzers: Investigate Reporting and Public Service. Deb doubted they'd win, the committee was open-minded enough to acknowledge the public campaign for the nomination, but not enough to give an online gossip tabloid the prize.

But still. 

Deborah was going to have a  _ legacy.  _ Everyone, even Thomas  _ fucking  _ Paine thinkpieced it up about Deb’s  _ cultural impact,  _ and how Nightstalker  _ was the future of new media _ , blah blah fucking blah. The old guard had cycled through denial and anger, had finally accepted that  _ Nightstalker’s  _ way of doing business wasn't leaving any time soon. 

She didn't sign up for this. 

She didn't sign up for any of this. If Future Deb had told 18 Year Old Deb that she'd start a successful tabloid, destroy the careers of two politicians, and protect a powerful closeted Senator, Future Deb would probably get punched in the face. 

She  _ especially  _ didn't sign up for the inevitable rounds of looming federal hearings and court dates. She was happy to cooperate with the Feds investigation, and testify as a witness in Sally Heming’s suit (anything to guarantee a Jefferson/Madison perp walk), but having to testify in front of the House Oversight Committee was a different animal. The newsroom was already taking bets about how many times she'd say “No, I will not name my sources” to a panel of stuffed shirts who still read the newspaper. 

 

*

 

_ Nightstalker’s  _ archive room, AKA “The Vault”, AKA “The Dungeon” AKA “The Sex Dungeon” was in the basement. Deborah entered her passcode and entered the inner sanctum. 

Inside the filing cabinets were the documents and footage behind every blog post and takedown. More actually--some stuff was acquired to keep out of other sites hands, some kept for leverage. Deborah opened a drawer, and pulled out a small envelope discreetly labeled “general/lion”.

 

*

 

Deborah held the flashdrive as she soaked in the tub. She could drop it in the water and  _ poof _ \-- the photo, the surveillance footage of Hamilton and Lafayette’s heist, the recording would disappear. No one would be the wiser. 

_ But _ .

“Hun, you're gonna wrinkle up like a prune if you stay in there any longer.”

Molly stared at the flashdrive.

“I thought you were gonna--”

“Molly, am I being a hypocrite?”

The chief tenet of  _ Nightstalker  _ was no PR, no blow job news, no holds barred. Destroying evidence of Washington’s relationship, while publishing  **BREAKING: JEFFERSON DEMANDS SPANKINGS, ASSAULTS GAY ESCORT IN GRAPHIC RECORDING** didn't sit well with her.

“Sweetheart, has Washington ever done anything to warrant a full court takedown?”

No, not really. He  _ was _ a politician, but had the good sense to not make corrupt bargains, and kept most of his dealings under wraps. Beyond acting like an idiot teenager at that restaurant, the only other thing worthy of ridicule was how Washington once fucked a dude with a dick  piercing at the last DNC convention. 

“I wouldn't be doing this if it was Von Steuben.”

“Because Von Steuben didn't so much come out of the closet-he pranced out throwing glitter and lip-synching to  _ Les Cage aux Folles _ .” This was true. God, he was so  _ obnoxious  _ about coming out, he made a swipe at Washington in his speech, something about how “It would be easier to remain in the closet, but the easy way is the coward’s way, and I am no coward.” His constituents in one of the bluest districts in Massachusetts reelected him in a landslide. Virginians were more fickle. 

Deb and Washington were similar: they both wanted to be in control of their own narrative. Fine. Let Washington and Hamilton figure it out in their own time. The less connecting Deborah to George Washington, the better. 

She dropped the flashdrive into the bathwater. 

Erase herself from the narrative. Maybe she'll call that pop culture critic at Buzzfeed, give an interview when she's in New York for the Pulitzer bullshit. Create a new narrative. Start building the legacy. 

Deborah stepped out of the bathtub.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for playing in this beautiful trash pile.

**Author's Note:**

> DICK CHENEY MADE MONEY OFF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION.


End file.
